Grunter's Symphony
by Zaedah
Summary: Must be the way he waves his stick. Ted POV


**Grunter's Symphony**

It's not really music. No more than I consider death thrash metal 'music.' I've been to my fair share of venues; as a grunt intern, my exposure to culture consisted of Genesis and Steely Dan concerts. The performances of Pavarotti and the Irish Tenors came with the heftier paychecks. Wealth affords rather magnificent seats and awfully delectable company, but it hardly made me a musical snob. While I'd take the Beatles over Bach any day, I maintain an appreciation for the hardworking orchestra, breathing air into woodwinds and plucking strings. Crisp suits, sharp movements, serious expressions. Impressive. But then again, my younger self was awed by Uncle Mack playing the spoons.

Before entering Charlie's house, I pause to gauge tonight's symphony. The furniture-barren interior grants crystal acoustics to the night music and sound has been known to hitchhike on a breeze clear to my penthouse. Or apartment. Or garage. Whatever.

There are deviations to the concertos. The conductor remains the only constant while a host of accompanying vocalists enjoys a typically one-night-only appearance. The chosen pieces are a variation on a theme; slow build, steady pacing, occasional peaks and then the calm before the frantic crescendo.

My interest in the Crews Symphony resides in the simple puzzle. It's a bit like doing the easy crossword, because not much skill is required but the completion is satisfying all the same. A person's song choice can give a hint about their mood, like my ex-girlfriend who played Aretha's 'Respect' whenever I forgot some inane relationship milestone. Come to think of it, as I was being led away in handcuffs I'd swear she was humming 'Already Gone' by the Eagles. But it isn't the song selection that usually punctuates Charlie's state of mind. It's the vocalist.

My Charlie-meter goes something like this:

When pleased and celebratory, the man likes a screamer. Particularly those who can shatter a light bulb with their operatic wails. While glad at the proof of my friend's good cheer, I could do without the ruptured eardrums. When frustrated or verging on un-Zen-ish anger, he prefers a talker. And if it's the domineering sort, so be it. I'm still a little fuzzy on how that works. When uncertain and seeking guidance, the soothing calm of a whispering voice appears. Of course, he's been know to label this as 'meditation.'

In that case, I want my crime re-listed as 'creative financing.'

The man's little black book may well be color-coded to organize his women according to the above 3 options. I admit a smidgen of envy at his apparent skill at the, um…podium. Must be the way he waves his stick.

I only came into the big house to raid the fridge. Liquor tends to spontaneously vaporize at my residence and Charlie can be counted on to keep extra beer on hand for my inevitable shortage. In no way am I nosy enough to want orchestral confirmation of how he's dealing with today's revelations. Though from the kitchen, I expect to hear female shrieks, as this signals joy at the killer's capture. Except I hear nothing. Though willfully meandering to the base of the spiral stairs, I certainly won't cop to eavesdropping. It shouldn't be necessary; I predict at least a rough and thoroughly filthy talker. Not a smutty demand or any word at all. Straining closer, mindful not to touch that oddly squeaky first step, I catch no indicator grunts. No groans. No music of any kind. Where's the symphony? Beer bottle sweating in my palm, I climb over the tattletale step and gingerly stalk up the stairs like every bad cat-burglar on television. Bad knees, you know.

An altogether new piece is being fine-tuned before my eyes; the rest of me is hiding behind the doorframe. Having already blown the first two options to bits, I see option 3, the soothing whisperer, performing dutifully to a seemingly deaf audience. The conductor has abandoned the podium to pace, responding in low grunts of a different note than anticipated. She's telling him to let go, to drop something. And I don't think she means his pants.

So I have the talking and I have the grunting and I have enough Charlie-frustration to send out the Bat Signal to every dominatrix in L.A. I have a cop and a lawyer, fully clothed and likely to arrest and sue me if I'm caught. I have tension and the possibility of a rare argument. I also have a rapidly warming beer and a distinct impression that I'm not needed here just now. I'm not particularly interested in being the five year old listening to his folks fight. Besides, they don't make feety pajamas in my size.

There's no show tonight, the curtain's down and the orchestra's muted. And something tells me Connie's not a screamer.


End file.
